Brentford moves on up

The only thing I know about Brentford is that it was once the home of synthetic, drip-dry materials. Dear old Brentford Nylons, whatever happened to them? In my mind's eye I can still picture Alan Freeman trying to convince seaside landladies that they were a must for their downmarket bed & breakfasts. I can even remember my unkempt toenails causing an electrical explosion every time they got caught in the sheets. I hear that nylon sheets are still popular in certain fetish clubs. Anyway, enough of this.

Brentford now has its first style bar and, apparently, a superb team of dedicated staff who were recently nominated in the Best Bar Team category in a national awards ceremony by one of the drinks' trade magazines. Now I am a sucker for slick service, and these guys were up there in the competition with teams from the Lonsdale in Notting Hill and Hakkasan in Fitzrovia. It was enough to tempt me to the uncharted waters of Brentford.

I chose a Saturday night to visit this former fire station, now converted into a ground-floor bar and firstfloor restaurant. It has a sleek, modern look, brilliantly illuminated by those overhead halogen spotlights so favoured by designers and despised by consumers. Squashy sofas add a gentle touch to the raw industrial interior.

If the bar staff were up for some sort of award, my guess is I was dealing with the reserve team when I visited. Ten minutes spent waving a tenner in the air to be noticed isn't my idea of particularly good service. A nod or a wink is all it takes to convince me that people are happy to relieve me of my money.

We perched on high stools next to a shelf in the corner of the room and tidied up the debris left by previous punters. Through

the thick cloud of smoke, I spotted a chauffer-driven Beemer pull up outside and drop off three likely lads out on the pull.

I could tell they were on the pull as they pitched up wearing dark suits (drip-dry from Burton's, I think) with

collars and ties - where I come from only lesbians and bailiffs dress like that on a Saturday night - and were continually checking themselves out in all reflective surfaces.

You drink beer by the bottle at The Old Fire Station, and these include the lovely Pilsner Urquell, Bitburger and Asahi, the not-so-lovely Corona, and the deeply lamentable American Budweiser - all at £2.95.

The cocktail list is relatively short and doesn't boast many of the classics that we've come to expect in London bars these days. My Lychee Martini possibly needed a tad more vodka, and a Mojito wasn't as finely balanced between the sweet and sour as I would have preferred.

The food menu was presumably designed to cater for the tastes of Brentford folk, so it's fish-finger sandwiches, chip butties, baked potatoes and salads, and pasta dishes - all perfectly agreeable and reasonably priced. The upstairs restaurant offers more substantial dishes and, judging by the packed house when I visited, is going down a storm.